


here come and sit where never serpent hisses

by shrinking_universe



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bookstore, Flirting, Humor, M/M, Memory Loss, Misunderstandings, Shakespearean seductions, Sort Of, Stupidity, accidental use of powers, except they're mutual, mutual misunderstandings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-03
Updated: 2021-02-12
Packaged: 2021-03-15 07:40:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 18,809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29185695
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shrinking_universe/pseuds/shrinking_universe
Summary: Crowley accidentally erases most of his and Aziraphale’s memories (including of each other), leaving them completely baffled about everything. Naturally, they assume they had a one-night stand. Complete stupidity ensues.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 73
Kudos: 67





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is complete, I'm uploading this in chapters and I'll upload them all once I've finished proofreading them. Hopefully within a week, but I can't be sure. :)

Crowley had never been so drunk before.

He’d been _very_ drunk before, yes, but this time he was so gone that he thought he could see new colours or the very fabric of time. Wine didn’t have that effect on him, but this time he’d unearthed some absinthe that he’d had locked away in his flat for a special purpose for over a hundred years, and now he and Aziraphale had consumed all of it.

The bottle had probably originated from France. He might have gotten it from an infamous Parisian nightclub. If he was sober, he would remember that a short, sad fellow called Henri had given it to him and warned that the stuff was probably cursed because it was so strong that even he, a regular consumer of absinthe, couldn’t stomach it.

Of course, him and the angel being immortal beings, they _could_ stomach it, but at a high cost. They were absolutely sauced.

Their reason had been a celebratory one: it was their first night of drinking together after having averted the Apocalypse, and since they could finally drink and enjoy each other’s company without having their bosses breathing down their necks, they had decided to go big.

In retrospect, maybe they shouldn’t have drunk _all_ of the absinthe. Crowley had had to migrate to Aziraphale’s bed so he could lean against the sturdy headboard to ease his wobbliness. When he was able to focus his eyes on Aziraphale long enough to actually see him, he saw the angel lying face-down on the floor of his bedroom and touching his carpet fervently, as if he was finding some secrets there. He was glowing faintly, too, and the air smelled weird, like there was too much oxygen in the room. It felt as if his angelic form was leaking slightly out of him.

That wasn’t good.

“W’need t…,” Crowley tried to speak, but his mouth felt numb. “Nhgel?”

Aziraphale heard him speak and in reply just started giggling, but in a very unsettling way. The noise wasn’t exactly coming directly out of his mouth, but instead bounced around the room. Or maybe it was Crowley’s head that was bouncing. He tried to focus.

“Uhsssiraphle,” he said more insistently.

“In a minute, love,” Aziraphale replied slurrily yet cheerily, sounding like he was having a very different conversation on his own.

Crowley groaned in frustration. Funny little geometric shapes were floating around his vision, and he tried to wave them away as he dropped to the floor and crawled to where Aziraphale was.

“We have to sober up,” Crowley said right next to his ear.

“I can’t,” Aziraphale said, giggling uncontrollably again. He didn’t sound like he was having a fun time, it just seemed that he couldn’t stop reacting that way. “Help me,” he said amid his laughter.

“No, nooooo, focus, angel,” Crowley pleaded. “If we don’t sober up, the hangover tomorrow will prob’b’bly be so bad it’ll discop… disporco… discorporate us. We’ll _die_.”

Aziraphale shook his head. “Bad,” he replied, apparently remembering the time he’d last been discorporated. But then he frowned in apparent discomfort. “But I think we’ll have to risk it, d-dear, I’m too drunk to sober up.”

“I can do it,” Crowley said with determination and confidence that he didn’t have. He just _really_ didn’t want to face the hangover that would come. “I’ll… sober up ‘s both.”

“If you’re sure,” Aziraphale mumbled and resumed picking at the carpet.

Crowley summoned up every power he had in him. This needed a real miracle. Shakily, he thrust his hands forward to help him, and hoped for the best.

He did something alright, and the effort it took drained him completely so that he climbed back up on the bed to rest for a little.

***********************

A beam of sunlight escaped from between the curtains and descended on Crowley’s face. It made him turn his face away in discomfort, which woke him up. His head felt empty and hazy, as is common in the mornings. And yet some instinct in him told him that something about his surroundings was unfamiliar. Something was wrong.

He opened his eyes and squinted. It was the light; he was fairly sure that he was used to better curtains that never let the light in when he slept. His eyes hurt a little from the blinding beam. Something in him yearned for darkness, it seemed.

To his relief he spotted a pair of sunglasses next to him on the bed and put them on.

Better.

Now that he could look around him, he saw that he was in a small, slightly stuffy-looking bedroom. The impression of stuffiness was partly caused by how brown-toned everything was, but also by how dusty and unused most of the room looked.

This wasn’t his house, he was quite sure of it now.

But what frightened him was that he wasn’t exactly sure what his own house was supposed to look like compared to this. That the haziness of waking up wasn’t leaving him like it should. His head still felt too empty.

He got up to a sitting position, and that’s when he spotted a very blonde man who was leaning his back against the side of the bed. The man looked like he had just woken up too, and locked eyes with Crowley just as he saw him.

“Er. Hi,” Crowley said tentatively.

The man on the floor was appraising him wordlessly, in clear confusion as well.

Crowley took note of his situation. Right. He didn’t know where he was, but it was surely someone else’s house. And he had woken up in someone’s bed. And there was a man in the bedroom with him. There was only one reason that he could think of that would lead to this.

But why didn’t he remember anything? Had they gotten drunk? And why were they dressed? Had they gotten drunk, then slept together, then dressed up and promptly passed out? Probably. That would explain why the blonde man was on the floor.

He didn’t want to ask the stranger if it was his house. It would make him look so stupid. However, he wouldn’t have even needed to ask; the man looked like he belonged there, what with his beige waistcoat that looked like it was from a different century, his bowtie that had come crooked and loose, and his overall look that somehow said both prim and stuffy at the same time.

“Hello,” the man finally replied, and pulled on his waistcoat to straighten it. Even from behind his shades Crowley could see that the man was blushing.

Neither of them clearly knew what to say, so Crowley decided to make light of the situation.

“So, were we drunk or what?” he said, trying to sound cool.

“Yes, must have been,” the man said, giving a little uncomfortable laugh.

It was weird how, even though at that moment Crowley could hardly remember much about himself except his own name, he still thought that the man on the floor was oddly… out of character for him. Why on earth would he have gone for someone like him? Not that he was ugly by any means. He looked kind of endearing, in his own way. But still, he looked like an innocent, old-fashioned professor or something. Like a man that didn’t do one-night stands. It made Crowley feel guilty, like he should explain himself to him, or apologise for having seduced him.

But apologising would make everything even more awkward. Crowley felt the need to leave right now, before he made things weirder by accidentally letting it show that he had no idea what was going on, _at all_.

“This was great,” he lied, “but I have to go,” he said, getting out of the bed.

Weird, he would have thought that if he’d gotten so drunk that he couldn’t remember anything he would also have a nauseating hangover, but he only felt a slight pang in his head as he stood up.

“Oh, of course,” the man said, getting up from the floor as well. “I’ll… I’ll walk you out,” he added, but he looked uncertain about what he’d said.

The man opened the door of the bedroom, revealing a short hallway with a couple of doors in it. He led them towards the door at the end of it but glanced around at the other doors as they passed them. Crowley frowned at his strange behaviour but didn’t have time to think about it because the man had opened the door and revealed a bookshop.

“Ah-ha,” the man said with a note of satisfaction in his voice. “Oh yes.”

“Right?” Crowley replied.

He looked around him as he followed the odd professor-looking man through the shop towards its front door. Something about the place overwhelmed him. It seemed much more familiar than the room he had woken up in. Scattered memories were trying to grab his attention, but he couldn’t grasp them because they had already reached the door and there was too much to take in all at once.

He felt an unexplainable urge to stay, but how could he, when he didn’t even know the man’s name?

“So, um, see you,” he said vaguely as they stood at the door and then, because he felt like he owed some manners to the man, he kissed him quickly on his cheek as he left.

* * *

Aziraphale stood like a fool at the door of his bookshop for about five minutes, just touching the tips of his fingers to his cheek and staring outside.

How had he ever ended up having a dalliance with someone as attractive as that man who had just left? It was beyond his comprehension. And so was his choice in the man. While he was very pleasing on the eyes, Aziraphale thought that he would have preferred someone who was more handsome in a convenient, dashing gentlemanly way, and not in a bad boy kind of way.

For this man had certainly looked like trouble. Dressed in all black and wearing sunglasses, and the way he swung his hips as he walked away, like he was up to no good… And he even had a snake tattoo on his neck! He looked like someone Aziraphale wouldn’t trust to enter his shop, let alone his bedroom.

And yet, he shivered at the thought of his lips on his cheek and wished he could remember at least something from last night.

How could he not remember? And even more alarmingly, how could he have gotten so drunk that he had lost most of both his long-term _and_ short-term memories? Could one even get so drunk?

As he finally looked around the shop, he saw wine bottles strewn on the floor. He went around picking them up and was startled to see an empty bottle of what smelled like absinthe as well. There was no way the two of them drank all of that on top of the wine. Was it even humanly possible to drink that much?

 _Humanly._ Humanly possible. Humans. Why did that word have a detached feeling belonging to it?

Starting to feel alarmed, he focused on his surroundings to ground himself. The bookshop had a comforting aura about it. Everything felt just right about it: the curved balustrades that went around the second floor; the skylight that let in bright yet soft and dusty beams of light into the middle of the shop; the scent of old paper and leather; the shining mahogany of the shelves and tables; the various knick-knacks strewn around the shop… He knew, from the moment he’d seen the shop, that it was his and had been for a long time. That was one point of certainty that he could focus on. Until he’d seen the shop, he hadn’t been so sure where he’d woken up in.

He touched the spines of the books carefully as he walked around the room. Some of the books surprised him: he didn’t understand why he’d chosen those titles in his collection, such as the Richard Crompton books. But most of the others felt familiar.

He stopped in front of a small glass cabinet that held a first edition Oscar Wilde book inside. As he regarded it, he felt as if he’d had it from its birth, fresh from the printing press and presented to him as a gift from a friend.

But that couldn’t be. Even though he barely remembered anything about himself, he still knew the exact date when the book had been first published, and that was… a long time ago.

 _Oh my God_ , he thought out of nowhere. What if the mysterious man in his bed had persuaded him to take drugs with him and that’s why his memory was so empty? He looked like he could have access to those sorts of things.

Some instinct in him instantly told him that wasn’t the case. But how had he ended up in this condition? Why was everything so strange? And was there even anything he could do about it?

* * *

Crowley had wandered out into the streets without a plan of what to do next. He looked at all the people passing him by and tried to see himself as one of them. Was he like them? Did he have a job or a family to get to? Why did he feel so lost?

Not knowing where to go, he at least decided to get away from the bookshop so his lay from last night wouldn’t see him standing there all confused.

As he started walking, he noticed the coolest car he had ever seen parked right next to the shop. It looked like a vintage Bentley, and he wanted it. He peeked inside and didn’t see anyone sitting there. He tried the door handle. It was locked.

An elderly woman nearby shot him a suspicious look, which made Crowley realise he probably looked like a car thief.

Shrugging at the woman, he walked away from the car. He didn’t want to get in trouble right now.

The streets felt familiar. He knew he was in London, and he knew he lived there and had traversed these streets many times. In fact, the more he walked, the more he felt like he was tracing a route towards his home. But he couldn’t quite decide where he was supposed to turn next.

When it started to rain, he stepped inside a café for a moment and slipped into an empty booth discreetly, hoping the waitresses wouldn’t kick him out for not buying anything.

He wondered whether he had any money and realised he should try searching his pockets. He went through all of them and put the items he found in front of him on the table.

A set of two keys, of which one looked like a car key. A phone. Another pair of shades. A hair tie. And lo and behold, three 50 quid notes. So, he _could_ afford to have tea. But strangely enough, he didn’t feel the least bit hungry. Maybe he could use it on some hotel, so he’d have a place to crash for a night or two before he remembered where he lived.

He picked up the car key and looked at it. What if the black Bentley was his? It was parked in front of the bookshop, after all. And it had almost beckoned to him. Maybe he could go see if it was still there tomorrow and see if the key fit.

He picked up his phone next and opened it to look at his contacts. He flicked through them and saw that he had quite a lot of contacts, and that some of them were the names of companies or CEOs.

“Jesus Christ, don’t tell me I’m a businessman, please,” he muttered to himself. Then he grimaced. Something in his mouth tasted slightly like rotten eggs for a passing moment.

Shaking his head, he continued going through the contacts. He was pretty sure the phone had some sort of function where it sorted the contacts by showing the ones he had called most often or recently on top of the list. He was quite bad at using his phone, which he deep down knew had nothing to do with his memory problem. He was just bad at it.

When he eventually found how to access the function, the phone gave him only two contacts as his most used.

_Aziraphale_

_Sergeant Shadwell_

He had no idea which one to pick, or whether it was wise calling either of them since he doubted he could just start a conversation by saying “Hi, do you happen to know who I’m supposed to be?” But, he reasoned, if he recognised their voices, maybe it would bring some memories back.

He dialled the Sergeant first. The phone beeped for such a long time that Crowley was sure it would just go to voicemail, but at the last second someone picked up the phone.

“Hi, it’s Crowley, I-“

”Yes? What’ye want?” a grumpy voice interrupted him.

Crowley faltered. He did sound very familiar, but he wasn’t _sure_ how to place the voice _._ Had he worked with him on some sort of job or other? Yes, he was almost sure he had hired him to do something.

“Uh, I thought I’d check up on… work,” Crowley said lamely.

“Away wi’ ye, I’m retired now. Don’t try to contact me or my Jezebel for tha’ matter. If it’s happening again, we dinnae ken nothin’ about it and dinnae want to either. Goodbye.”

Crowley blinked. Shadwell had just hung up on him. When he tried to call him again, he didn’t pick up.

Right. So that wasn’t helpful at all.

He dialled the other number. It rang for a while as well, until…

“Hello?” a polite voice answered.

Crowley gasped silently and hung up the phone, dropping it on the table in his surprise.


	2. Chapter 2

Next morning, Aziraphale found himself with no more answers than he’d had the previous morning. He had hoped that a good night’s sleep might bring his memories back, but he hadn’t slept well at all. And yet the funny thing was, he didn’t feel tired even though one would expect it after a night of insomnia. All he felt was a little frustrated, because he still felt like he was missing something.

But, oh well. He had his bookshop. He doubted he had much else going on in his life outside of it – nobody had tried to contact him all day yesterday apart from a strange prank call, so he quite naturally resumed doing what he thought he must have always been doing: tending to his books. He vaguely understood that losing one’s memories was a rather big and worrying deal, but at the same time his mind seemed to have started protecting him by directing him towards the most obvious solutions. He was a bookseller in Soho. If there was anything else to remember, he’d remember it later.

And he didn’t need his memories to remember what his own personality was like, didn’t need deep soul-searching to understand what sort of things he preferred over others. He felt that he knew himself, but just couldn’t happen to remember some vital details.

So, basically everything was almost tip-top.

He was checking his book catalogue when he saw movement through the shop window which attracted his attention. Someone was looking at the ‘CLOSED’ sign on the door and reading the opening times. With a jolt, Aziraphale realised that it was the Attractive Bad Boy that he thought he would never get to see again after he said goodbye to him yesterday.

Bustling out of his chair and reaching for the cologne that was on his desk, he hoped he would have had the sense to wear something different today. It’s not that he wanted to make an impression per se, but he wanted to appear presentable at least. However, having taken another look at the man outside, he saw that he was wearing the same clothes too, or maybe something very similar to his previous outfit. Maybe he wouldn’t judge him on that account, then.

He hurried to the door and opened it.

“Hi. You. Are you closed?” the man asked, gesturing to the sign.

“Oh, no, no,” Aziraphale replied, and found himself quickly flipping the sign over, hoping it wouldn’t mean that other customers would come. “What brings you here?”

“Books. You sell books, right? I was in the neighbourhood, I forgot I parked my car here. Thought I might as well… Get some books.” the man replied. He was wearing his sunglasses again, and Aziraphale wondered what his eyes looked like. He didn’t need to see them to be able to tell he was handsome, but he’d like to see them anyway to better gauge what sort of man he was. The way into the soul and all that.

“Oh, yes,” Aziraphale said smilingly. “Avid reader, then?”

“More of a casual reader,” the man said hesitantly. “I came here for some recommendations.”

He was looking around intently around the shop, as if searching for something. Then he seemed to remember something and snapped his head to look at Aziraphale somewhat sheepishly.

“Unless that’s… awkward… considering we…?” he said and left the sentence hanging.

“Oh,” Aziraphale felt himself blush. “I don’t mind.”

In truth, he did find the man’s presence slightly awkward, but that was mainly because Aziraphale was feeling flustered about the fact that they both knew they’d slept together and yet Aziraphale couldn’t remember any of it yet alone the man’s name. Still, he was intrigued by the mysterious man. His intuition told him that the man can’t have actually drugged him or had any malicious intentions towards him, but the whole thing was so puzzling that it had him deadly curious to get to know him better.

* * *

It had been a good idea to visit the bookshop again. Something about the surroundings truly corresponded to Crowley’s mind, and although he still hadn’t exactly remembered anything useful, he didn’t feel as lost in there as he had in the dreary hotel he’d stayed in for last night. His hotel room hadn’t even had a mirror in it, so he could only hope that his hair wasn’t too terrible.

Not that he _really_ minded what a prissy bookseller from Soho would think of his appearance.

In any case, wasn’t retracing your steps the solution to remembering things? He’d just pretend to be interested in literature so he’d have a legitimate reason to keep returning there.

As Aziraphale gestured at the shelves and explained about his collection, Crowley observed his face and wondered what he had to do with all of this. Clearly he’d been in contact with him before their date, hook-up, or whatever it was, if he had his number on his phone and had used it. Had they taken some pills together? Is that why he couldn’t remember anything? The man didn’t seem like a person he’d take _drugs_ with. Was this all some fucked up dream? Was he going senile at the age of…

…?

Crowley stopped thinking before the terrifying void in his head swallowed him and made him panic.

Right. He’d just spend time here and see if it helped.

“So, err…,” Aziraphale said amid his talk that Crowley hadn’t fully paid attention to. Aziraphale faltered for a moment, until he continued: “How do you feel about 19th century literature? Should we start with some popular classics, if you’re unfamiliar?”

Before Crowley could say that he really didn’t have much of an impression of the 19th century, Aziraphale spoke up again, looking contrite and painfully polite.

“I’m sorry, I must admit that to my… embarrassment I don’t recall your name and it bothers me.”

“Oh,” Crowley said, surprised but somewhat pleased to know that he wasn’t the only one to have forgotten details of their night together. “It’s Crowley.”

“Of course. Thank you,” Aziraphale said with a smile. “So, Crowley, 19th-”

“And yours?” Crowley butted in before he lost the nerve to ask and would have to go on wondering how he was supposed to pronounce ‘Aziraphale’.

Aziraphale made an amused noise, a sort of benevolent harrumph, as if to acknowledge their camaraderie in forgetfulness.

“Aziraphale.”

“Uh-see-rah-fell,” Crowley repeated under his breath. “Got it.”

He went back to his hotel that day with a Thomas Hardy novel.

* * *

“Goodness, did you really finish that book already?” Aziraphale asked the next day as Crowley sauntered in.

He hadn’t expected Crowley back so soon but had flipped over the sign on the door anyway out of some half-understood sense of hope. Unfortunately, it had meant that other customers had found their way to his shop too that morning.

  
“I did. Had nothing else to do all day,” Crowley said, once again wearing his sunglasses. It _was_ sunny outside, but Aziraphale was beginning to wonder if there was some insecurity hidden behind all that bravado.

“You don’t have an occupation?” Aziraphale asked, aiming his tone for seemingly polite interest, but actually tried to gauge what sort of man he was dealing with. He doubted that Crowley was a complete scoundrel, but one could never be too careful.

“Oh. Eh,” Crowley hesitated, turning his head this way and that. “No. Yes. Business. Big company stuff.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale said, trying but failing to hide his disappointment. It sounded a little… dreary.

“No, I know,” Crowley assured, apparently noticing his reaction. “Hate my job. It’s not very me.”

“What do you do for fun, then?”

Crowley hesitated again before answering, and Aziraphale wondered if he was being rather too nosy.

“Listen to Queen. Drive around… I have a vintage car,” Crowley replied. He sounded a little uncertain, but as he was walking around the shop as he talked, Aziraphale couldn’t tell if it was because he had something to hide or if he was just distracted by the books he was looking at. “Art. I quite like art… and nice restaurants.”

Crowley turned on his heel and pointed his finger at Aziraphale quite suddenly.

“And you?” he asked sharply. “You like…,” he paused to gesture around the shop floors, as if to refer to the mess that had been there two mornings ago. “You like wine? Wining and dining, maybe?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale replied unsteadily. Why was Crowley asking if he liked wining and dining? He wasn’t asking him out again, was he? He felt flustered and unsure of what he should do. He opted to ignore whatever it was that had just happened. “And I enjoy books, of course. All sorts of interesting and rare historical pieces – first editions especially –, Biblical things, poetry, so forth.”

He swallowed nervously. Crowley was looking at him with his head tilted, and Aziraphale didn’t know what that look meant.

“Oh, speaking of books,” he added, “you came to buy another one, yes? Oh, look, but there’s another customer who requires my help. Why don’t you look around for a while and we’ll find you a new book shortly?”

He bustled away to the only other customer in the shop, not actually caring about helping them in the slightest, but needing the distraction for a moment until he felt composed.

The customer had in fact wanted to make a purchase. She’d noticed the beautiful edition of Dickens’ _A Tale of Two Cities_ that he owned and was absolutely set on having it. It wasn’t a very old edition and not as valuable as some of the other books he had, but he still didn’t want her to have it. In fact, he thought maybe Crowley would like to read it.

She was so set on buying it that he wasn’t exactly sure _how_ he managed to persuade her to leave it. She hadn’t seemed to listen to his suggestions of shopping elsewhere. One moment she had been reaching for her money purse, but then the very next, after he’d given her an insistent ‘ _perhaps you should still reconsider’_ look, she’d suddenly given up and left.

That was certainly strange.

He didn’t bother his head about it for too long, however, because now he had a book for Crowley.

After Crowley had left with his purchase, he thought how annoyingly conflicting it felt to be flattered that his one-night stand seemed to be interested in books and his shop, and yet slightly upset that it meant that his shop was making profit.

* * *

Crowley felt a tiny bit guilty as he drove back to his hotel. He hadn’t meant to lie about his career to Aziraphale, but he’d had to come up with something quickly. And what if that really was his job? He might have been right, after all. Although he hoped he wasn’t.

He really needed to figure out what to do with Aziraphale. He knew he wanted to go back to the bookshop and see him again because it might bring about a solution to his memory problems. But that was a problem in itself – how was he to get to know more about the man when he didn’t even know enough about _himself?_

He had a more pressing problem on top of that too. He was running out of money, and if he wanted to keep buying books from Aziraphale he would have to give up his hotel room. And he _still_ couldn’t remember where he lived.

Sighing to himself in annoyance, he entered the brightly lit hotel lobby and strode towards the front desk where the clerk looked up expectantly.

“Hi. I’m staying in room 13, and I-,” he started with a bored tone, but stopped for a second, distracted by a large speck of dust that had landed on his sunglasses. He felt so used to the glasses that he hadn’t really even acknowledged them until now. He took them off to wipe the lenses with his sleeve and looked back at the clerk to continue, all the while thinking hard about how he really didn’t want to end up sleeping in his Bentley.

The clerk let out a sudden and weird strangled shout for no reason as she looked at Crowley.

“What?” Crowley demanded in confusion. He turned to look behind him, but nothing was going on. Right. Weirdo. “Anyway listen, I don’t have any more cash and my credit card is lost, so I’ll have to lea-“

He paused again, staring at the clerk. She was acting very strangely. Whatever had startled her just a second ago didn’t seem to matter to her anymore. Instead, she looked slightly dreamy and dazed. Not in a dizzy way, but like she was operating on some other level than he was.

“Yes, we meant to contact you and tell you that while you were gone the cleaner discovered water damage in your room due to the old age of the pipes, and we suspect there’s mildew because of it,” she said in an oddly smooth tone. “And another guest just cancelled his hotel room which had been booked for a week, so as a compensation for your disagreeable stay with us we can give you that room for a week.”

Crowley stared at her wordlessly. Sure, his hotel room was shabby, but he hadn’t noticed any damages.

This entire interaction was weird, but he wasn’t going to say no to the offer. He wouldn’t have to sleep in his Bentley after all.

He shrugged and put his sunglasses back on. The lobby was too bright for his sensitive eyes.

“That’d be great, thanks,” he said.

Now the clerk looked a little confused herself, but she made the arrangements for his move and gave him the new key anyway.

Crowley walked away quickly before the clerk changed her mind.

As strange as that had been, he was glad. This meant he could focus solely on the problem that was Aziraphale. He knew he couldn’t keep buying his books forever: there was the money issue, but also the fact that as much as he pretended to be interested in trying out classics, he didn’t really care enough to keep reading them _every day_. He thought about the Dickens book waiting for him in the car with trepidation. Yeah… Nope. He couldn’t keep this up forever.

And besides, he was sure that Aziraphale was smart enough to become suspicious at some point and realise he wasn’t really a book person. But he needed a reason to keep returning to the shop without flat out admitting that he was there to refresh his terrible memory.

He thought back to their awkward conversation earlier. He’d been so startled by Aziraphale’s questions about what he did with his time that, wanting the attention off himself, he’d tried to guess Aziraphale’s interests and had accidentally come off a little suggestive with his ‘wining and dining’ comment. But maybe… maybe that wasn’t so bad.

Maybe he could try actually flirting with him. Yes. Flirt with him so obviously that the bookseller would know that that was the _real_ reason why he kept returning, and therefore he wouldn’t grow suspicious over the books.

It wouldn’t even feel like a chore to flirt with him. Sure, he wasn’t what Crowley expected to be his type, but he was kind of cute with his polite yet fussy manner, charmingly upturned nose and his surreally blonde hair. It would be interesting to see him flustered.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is rather long and where it starts to escalate. Aziraphale and Crowley reach new heights of stupidity! Hold on to your hats.

Aziraphale wasn’t sure how many more books Crowley intended to buy. He’d already bought two in the span of two days. Surely he wouldn’t come for a third one so soon? Still, he’d kept the shop open all morning and politely fended off customers as best as he could. He didn’t want Crowley to feel disappointed about the shop being closed if he did turn up.

He wondered if he was being desperate, hoping that there was an off chance that an attractive man that he barely knew happened to come by. Did it count as desperate, if he wasn’t specifically trying to garner Crowley’s affection? If he was only looking forward to his visits with innocent curiosity?

Around noon, after he had just shepherded another curious buyer out, he wondered why he was doing this. Running a bookshop was dreadful. There wasn’t anything wrong with the books. Or owning the shop. But the _customers_! Although they offered money in return, they felt like greedy thieves to him, trying to steal all the treasure he had so laboriously collected.

Logic told him that making a steady profit was vital to keeping one’s store, but deep down he also knew that he didn’t need the money. Well, for eating and buying more books perhaps, but not really for sustaining the store. He wasn’t exactly sure why or how that worked, but somehow it made sense to him and he didn’t care to question it.

He was just about to consider closing the shop for the day or maybe for at least a couple of hours to save some of his dignity when Crowley appeared.

“Hi,” he said with a suave little smile as he entered the shop.

Aziraphale greeted him back nervously. Now that he was finally here, he didn’t quite know what to do. All he had focused on was whether he’d turn up or not instead of figuring out what he’d say to him or what exactly he expected of him. Although he found Crowley interesting, he still felt quite taken aback by his presence. He seemed so different from what Aziraphale considered (with his limited understanding of himself) to be his world, and yet he didn’t feel annoyed about him returning to the shop. In fact, although he wouldn’t like to admit it, it delighted his vanity to know that Crowley cared enough about his shop to return. But because he barely knew the man and felt the crushing embarrassment of not remembering anything from their night together, Aziraphale felt overwhelmingly unprepared and shy in his company.

And currently there weren’t even any other customers around the shop to distract either of them. What was he to do with all this undiluted attention?

“Well, thoughts on Dickens?” Aziraphale asked finally, deciding to stay strictly on the topic of books as it was a safe and familiar one.

“To be honest, I didn’t finish it yet,” Crowley admitted with another little smile. “My thoughts were a bit distracted.”

Oh. Then why was he here?

“Then…?” Aziraphale started but felt himself unable to ask the question.

Crowley seemed to pick it up.

“Well…,” he said slowly, trailing his fingertips across the spine of one of the books on the shelf next to him. “Considering it’s Friday… and your shop is closed on the weekends according to the sign outside… I thought it’d be a shame if I didn’t get to see…,” he paused and looked straight at Aziraphale through his shades, “…your books until Monday. What if I needed more?”

“Huh. Hum,” Aziraphale replied uncertainly. “No, we’re open on Saturdays,” he lied out of nervousness. “The sign is a bit outdated.”

“Silly me, then,” Crowley said in a low voice.

Aziraphale stared back at him blankly. Why was he feeling a bit sweaty all of a sudden?

“So… what sort of a book would interest you next?” he asked as composedly as he could.

“Maybe something different this time. Older. Do you have any Shakespeare? I’ve been feeling like checking out his sonnets, maybe,” Crowley said thoughtfully. He was circling around the shop slowly, walking in that swinging way of his that surely nobody could avoid drawing their attention to. “‘Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?’ I can’t remember the rest, but you know.”

“’Thou art more lovely and more temperate’,” Aziraphale mumbled to himself quietly, feeling himself blush for no reason.

“What was that?” Crowley asked curiously.

“I said yes, I think I have a collection of sonnets somewhere,” Aziraphale said quickly. Then he hesitated, not wanting to be rude but opening his mouth anyway. “You are aware that they might be a bit of an… acquired read? You might find them challenging, if Dickens was distracting.”

“I’m not afraid of challenges,” Crowley shrugged. “And I’ll try anything once.” Then he gave another one of those suave smiles as he glanced at Aziraphale from head to toe and back again. “Or twice.”

Aziraphale felt himself tremble slightly. He had lost his already loose grip on the conversation completely and was now clueless as to what was happening or what he should say.

Well, he was mostly clueless about what he should say. He _did_ have an inkling as to what was happening, but he could scarcely believe it. Crowley’s behaviour heavily implied that his comment about wining and dining the previous day had _not_ been an offhand comment.

Somehow, the knowledge of them having already been in bed together once before made him feel _more_ flustered than if they never had been together. If they never had been, he could brush off Crowley’s comments as jokes or misguided affection. But because they _had,_ it meant that… Crowley must have liked it and wanted more. More of _him._

It was enough to make him feel lightheaded.

He gripped the edge of the nearest bookshelf and tried to fend off these thoughts. It had been unlike him to jump into bed with a stranger in the first place, and he would certainly not do it again just like that. He had to have some standards, after all. He would need to be wooed at least a little. Offering suggestive comments and looks in his bookshop _did not_ count as wooing. And he was _not_ going to fall for something so lewd.

“So how about it?” Crowley asked, after a short silence had ensued.

“Excuse me?” Aziraphale asked incredulously in return.

“That book? Will you sell me the sonnet collection?” Crowley replied blankly.

”Oh,” Aziraphale said, blinking. He felt a bit silly. What if he’d imagined the hidden meaning of the exchange?

He strode over to the shelf where he kept his Shakespeares.

Oh, no.

All of his sonnet collections were beautifully bound vintage hardcovers. He didn’t have a single bad or cheap copy that he could gladly give away. And yet, he didn’t want to disappoint Crowley.

He turned to look at him in dismay.

“Is something wrong?” Crowley asked. “If you don’t have it, it’s okay.”

“Of course I have it,” Aziraphale scoffed. What kind of a book collector didn’t have Shakespeare’s sonnets? He pulled out one of the copies and showed it to Crowley. “It’s just that… would you mind terribly if… if you returned it to me after you’re done with it?”

“Interesting,” Crowley said with an amused tone. “So… like in a library?”

Aziraphale blushed again, now with a different kind of embarrassment.

“It’s just that I’m very fond of my copies,” he said, defensive yet meek.

“Alright, then.” Crowley still looked amused. In fact, he gave a cheeky little smile. “In return, I might take you to dinner?”

 _Oh dear._ Now this was a clear offer, and Aziraphale didn’t know what to say. He’d love to have dinner. But what if Crowley expected something more if he said yes?

Crowley saw his hesitation.

“It doesn’t have to be _now._ But the offer’s on the table, if you want to some other time?”

In the face of this quick decision-making moment, Aziraphale thought the best course of action would be to be vague.

“Maybe,” he said, and handed the sonnet collection over.

* * *

Crowley couldn’t help but laugh as he drove back to the hotel. Aziraphale’s awkward, blushing reaction had been absolutely worth using a cheesy pick-up line for. A mischievous part of him just found it all so funny, but another part of him felt genuinely delighted.

* * *

Aziraphale felt like an utter buffoon, keeping the shop open on a Saturday because he’d gone and said it would be. And all because he hoped he might see Crowley. _Again._

Dealing with customers wasn’t ideal at all, but he didn’t know what else to do. If he let Crowley in and _then_ closed the shop it might seem a tad… forward, wouldn’t it? Then again, considering yesterday, Crowley was quite forward himself. _And_ they had already slept together.

But still. He was fairly sure that Crowley must have been the one to make the moves that night, since it was so unlike himself to spend a night drinking and cavorting. He must have got to him, as he was beginning to get to him now. Why was he so suave? He wasn’t supposed to be suave. He looked frankly silly, wearing his sunglasses indoors all the time and wearing trousers at least two sizes too small. His manner alone should make him seem pretentious. And yet… here Aziraphale was, keeping the shop open for him.

Although he _did_ stand by the door rather menacingly so that not a lot of customers ended up trying to enter the shop.

To both his relief and slight dread, Crowley turned up around one o’clock.

Unlike usually, he didn’t saunter straight into the shop, but hovered by the door instead, leaning his elbow high on the doorframe.

“Don’t worry, I’m not here to deprive you of one of your books again,” he promised at once with a slightly crooked smile. “I just wanted to ask you what you think good old William meant when he said:

And for a woman wert thou first created,

Till Nature as she wrought thee fell a-doting,

And by addition me of thee defeated

By adding one thing to my purpose nothing.”

Aziraphale felt like rolling his eyes. Of course he’d memorise and quote one of the most obviously homoerotic sonnets. He wondered if Crowley had looked it up especially or if he’d just fixated on it naturally. He also wondered what on Earth he was supposed to reply, whether he should invite Crowley in or get rid of him before he embarrassed himself in front of him.

“Well,” he started, but then just opened and closed his mouth several times.

“It’s the last line I don’t get in particular,” Crowley added.

Aziraphale sighed.

“It’s… ‘thing’ and ‘nothing’, they were… slang, as it were, for…,” he floundered.

“What, genitals?” Crowley offered helpfully.

“Yes.”

“So, the speaker’s saying they were created with the ‘wrong’ bits? Is it as straight-forward as that? He’s saying he can’t have his lover sexually because they’re both men?”

“Well, yes, it is probably what Shakespeare meant,” Aziraphale said with a little shrug. “He is quite straight-forward when you understand what he’s saying.”

“But since she pricked thee out for women's pleasure / Mine be thy love and thy love’s use their treasure,” Crowley mused, seemingly half to himself, until he raised his eyebrows above his sunglasses and looked at Aziraphale. “Do you think the speaker would really find his love’s friendship more fulfilling than having him sexually?”

“Well,” Aziraphale found himself starting again, “uh, it could be seen as a kind of self-consolation. If he can’t have him, um, carnally, he will take what he can.”

“Hm,” Crowley nodded, mulling it over.

"Did you really come all this way to discuss Sonnet 20?” Aziraphale couldn’t help but ask. He didn’t want to get misled into thinking that he’d be having a lovely literary discussion with Crowley, only to find out that he had something else on his mind. He felt annoyed that he was beginning to feel impressed about how well Crowley had memorised the quotations.

“Well, no,” Crowley admitted. “It’s a warm day, I thought I might go to the park. Care to join?”

“Oh,” Aziraphale breathed out gratefully. “Yes. I rather would.”

That meant he’d be able to close the shop without locking himself in with Crowley which might lead to awkward situations. And yet, he could still spend some time with him. Nothing ever happens in a _park._ Parks are perfect and safe.

Crowley barked out a laugh when he saw how enthusiastically Aziraphale ushered them out and locked the door of the shop.

“Well, you’re certainly eager,” Crowley said appreciatively.

“I just don’t like customers,” Aziraphale admitted, flustered by the impression Crowley was getting.

“Just me, then?” Crowley said with a smirk.

Aziraphale faltered, but didn’t have time to even think of an answer because Crowley was already directing him towards his car, with the door already open for him.

“You’re driving us? Are you serious?” he asked, because he was fairly sure some distant memory told him that the nearest park was not _that_ far away from his shop.

“Just get in,” Crowley said with a wave of his hand.

He seemed like one of those people who were obsessed with their cars, Aziraphale mused. And it was fair enough of him, he thought, since the car was so unique. But he soon found out that his love of driving wasn’t merely because of the aesthetic of it, but for the speed as well. Crowley was racing them through the busy streets as if they were being chased.

But as terrified as he was for his and the pedestrians’ safety, he was also startlingly fascinated by the car. It felt important. Familiar, even. He could almost feel his throat constricting with something, a lump of a feeling that was so strong yet hard to pinpoint that he felt breathless and lightheaded. Although, it could have just been the adrenaline caused by their dangerous drive.

Crowley apologized for his driving as Aziraphale stumbled out of the car shakily after the drive, but he didn’t really look apologetic at all. It didn’t help that he was grinning.

They ended up walking around the park leisurely, for which Aziraphale was grateful after all _that_. And surprisingly, it felt very natural to walk there together with his enigmatic one-night stand. They had no direction or purpose to their strolling, but it didn’t really matter. The sun was gracing them with its warm presence, and although Aziraphale didn’t necessarily always know what to talk about with his companion, it didn’t really bother him that day. He even laughed when Crowley threw a half-joking, but still suggestive reference to their dalliance, saying something about how they were doing things out of order, that usually he didn’t sleep with people first and _then_ take them out to the park for a stroll.

But it made Aziraphale think. Crowley’s continued attentions towards him seemed to imply that he’d truly _liked_ Aziraphale, that he wanted to pursue his company further. Had their night together really been _that good_? What exactly did Crowley see in him?

* * *

The next day, Crowley ended up in the same park by himself to think. He plopped down on a bench and wracked his brain. He felt like he was on the cusp of figuring things out, as if so many memories were trying to find themselves back to him but he didn’t know how to let them. The park sparked something. Aziraphale himself did, too. Not just his shop. The key to his memories was somewhere close.

If only he could remember where he lived. He was tired of his cheap hotel room, of having no personal objects around him to remind him of his life. He was so sure he lived somewhere nearby, and if he didn’t remember it soon, he’d just drive around the city until something looked right.

Suddenly he saw something beige out of the corner of his eye. It was Aziraphale. He spotted Crowley at the same time and made his way over hesitantly while also smiling shyly.

Crowley grinned back at him almost automatically. Yes, he had a weird memory loss to worry about and yes, Aziraphale was somehow related to his life and therefore hanging around him _was_ useful in order to retrieve his memories, but he also just genuinely enjoyed bothering him. He was like a distraction and a solution at the same time, and by this point he didn’t mind at all if he just ended up sleeping with him again. It probably wouldn’t _help_ to retrieve his memories, but if Aziraphale was interested in him and things happened, it’d be fun, at least. Crowley barely knew him, and he was an unusual choice for him, yes, but he liked looking at him, wanted to see what would happen if he kissed him, what he’d do, what he’d say.

“Hello,” Aziraphale said cheerfully as he neared him. “May I?” he asked, gesturing to the bench.

“Of course,” Crowley said, casually throwing his arm to rest on top of the bench’s back as Aziraphale sat down next to him, so that his hand was ever so slightly brushing Aziraphale’s back.

“I didn’t know you were here,” Aziraphale explained hastily. “It looks as if I followed you. I didn’t. I just fancied a walk.”

“No need to get so defensive,” Crowley laughed. “It’s nice that you enjoy my company.”

“I- uh,” Aziraphale started uncertainly, looking like he was about to deny it, but didn’t. “I really did fancy a walk. But I do… enjoy your company, too.”

Crowley smiled as he watched Aziraphale fiddle with his hands, clearly embarrassed. Although Aziraphale was being all sincere, sweet, and demure, Crowley couldn’t help but have a bit of fun with him.

“Yeah?” he asked in a low voice and scooted a little closer to him on the bench. Now his hand _was_ touching Aziraphale’s back, and he took the opportunity to slowly trace patterns on his shoulder with the tips of his fingers.

He saw Aziraphale shudder a little, but he didn’t look disgusted or uncomfortable. He was staring at Crowley earnestly, but he looked so shy that Crowley took pity of him and didn’t want to fluster him too much. So, he leaned his back on the bench leisurely to show that he wasn’t getting any closer.

But he did wonder. How was Aziraphale so shy, when they’d already slept together? Was it because they had been drinking, and therefore he’d been less reserved? Or was he shy during it, too? Had he enjoyed it?

“How was it for you, by the way? That night,” he couldn’t help but ask, frowning a little. He was genuinely curious.

“Oh.” Aziraphale looked surprised. He took his time with his answer, clearly wondering what to say as several different expressions flashed across his face. Crowley was starting to worry that he’d been dismal and regretted asking him, but then Aziraphale shot him a placating look. “It was… it… It wasn’t just your name that I forgot. I don’t remember anything about that night. I’m so sorry.”

“You know what? Neither do I,” Crowley blurted out with both relief and surprise.

“Really?” Aziraphale perked up.

“Not a thing,” he said. “Judging by the bottles on your floor, we drank a _lot._ ”

“I know! I don’t know even know how we’re alive after that,” Aziraphale said with a small laugh, looking relieved as well. “Please don’t think I do that all the time, I’m not like that.”

“You did say you like wine,” Crowley pointed out.

“That I do, actually,” Aziraphale admitted sheepishly.

Crowley wondered whether he should tell him that he couldn’t remember anything _at all,_ that it felt as if their night wiped his memories altogether. He opened his mouth, almost about to tell him because he wished Aziraphale could help him somehow, that he could share his worries. But he hesitated and thought better of it. It would make him sound mad, and then Aziraphale would want nothing to do with him and he’d lose the one contact in his life that felt familiar to him. He wanted to ask Aziraphale how they’d met, why he had his name on his most-called contacts, who’d asked out whom, but those questions would easily reveal that he knew _nothing._

“Do you think we had such mind-numbingly good sex that we both forgot about it?” he joked instead.

“I, um. Don’t think that makes any sense,” Aziraphale said lightly. He flashed Crowley a hesitant but amused little smile, like he was put at ease by the fact that they were on the same footing. But then, just as quickly, his face fell and a confused frown appeared on it.

“What?” Crowley asked, noticing it.

“I’m a little confused as to why…,” Aziraphale began, cleared his throat, and shuffled a little on the bench. “Why you’ve kept coming back then, if not for…,” he blushed, “some kind of repeat? If you have no memory of the night, like I don’t, then what brings you back?”

Crowley hesitated. He hadn’t actually thought about that before admitting to his hazy memory.

“Well, at first I felt a bit bad, you know, for being too drunk to remember it and leaving in a hurry,” he found himself lying quickly, “so I thought I’d see if I’d cocked things up too badly, but you were nice enough to me.” He nudged Aziraphale’s foot with his own. “And I mean, personally, I’m _very good,_ so it _can’t_ have been bad, and besides you’re cute, so I guess I haven’t really questioned all of this. Why not, you know?”

He knew he was rambling idiotically, but it was all he could do without a plan.

“Oh,” was all Aziraphale replied, but he didn’t look put out.

“It really is a pity we can’t remember it,” Crowley said, truthfully this time. He found himself opening his mouth again without thinking. “Next time we should lay off the booze.”

Aziraphale gave him a wide-eyed look.

“Sorry. Am I being too much? You just came here for a nice walk,” Crowley replied quickly, feeling slightly guilty for bothering the poor man too heavily and embarrassed at spouting things too chaotically. He’d been so startled to find out that Aziraphale didn’t remember their night either, and his initial relief was now changing into worry about what would happen next. He really needed to get a grip on himself.

“Eh… quite,” Aziraphale said, looking flustered but also somehow apologetic. “But it’s okay.”

The man really was too kind and polite for his own good, Crowley mused.

“Ho-how’s your day been, then?” Aziraphale continued, seeming to long for a change of subject. “How’s it going with Shakespeare? Or Dickens?”

Crowley held on to the change of subject gratefully, although it wasn’t a very helpful change: he really wasn’t as interested in the books as Aziraphale might have hoped, so he didn’t have a lot of meaningful things to say about them. He was much more interested in Aziraphale. Still, he _had_ leafed through them a little. It’s not like he had a lot of other things to do when he wasn’t seeing Aziraphale.

“Oh, I’ve mostly been at home. I’m almost done with _A Tale of Two Cities._ It’s… cool. Pretty brutal, that revolution stuff, right?”

“I actually haven’t read that in a while, but oh yes, I do remember the French Revolution. Quite ghastly,” Aziraphale replied pleasantly, but then frowned to himself momentarily, as if confused by his own words. Crowley was about to ask what was up with him, but Aziraphale shook himself slightly and latched on to the other part of what Crowley had said. “Oh, where do you live, by the way?”

“Just close by,” Crowley said and hoped he wouldn’t ask for specifics as he was still trying to figure it out himself.

“Oh, that’s nice. In Soho, like me?” Aziraphale enquired.

“Er, no.”

“Westminster?” Aziraphale went on.

“Nope.”

“Gosh, you’re enigmatic. Mayfair, then?”

“Yeah,” Crowley found himself agreeing, partly so that Aziraphale would stop asking, but as he said it, he suddenly felt sure of it.

He instantly felt like a massive idiot. Mayfair. It was _so close_. A worthless little walk away from the park, and yet it hadn’t rung a bell for him until now that it was said out loud. He’d been lodging in a shitty hotel for days, when he could have just _walked home_. A restless feeling rose in him. His memory was flickering and crackling like pop rocks, he almost felt like he could see his apartment, knew that if he went there right now he’d probably find his way home. He wanted to go there at once.

“Listen. I’ve gotta go,” he said unceremoniously and got up quickly.

“What? Oh,” Aziraphale said, clearly surprised and sporting a look that was not unlike a lost puppy.

“I just remembered I’ve got some stuff. Work. Stuff,” Crowley explained, not wanting Aziraphale to think he’d grown tired of his company so quickly. “Would love to spend time with you, but I really need to dash. Bye.”

He already started running off without waiting for a reply. But because he felt both sorry that he was going off like this but also giddy about the fact that Aziraphale had inadvertently made him remember where he lived, he skidded to a halt and dashed back to the bench where Aziraphale was sitting, lifted his hand, and placed a kiss on the back of it before he went off again.

After dropping by the hotel to check out of his room and pick up Aziraphale’s books, he drove straight to Mayfair. Once he drove down familiar-looking streets and bends it didn’t take him long to find his way home. It was almost instinctual.

And once he found his front door, as he was digging out keys from his pocket, he was quickly becoming aware of a strange certainty, some sort of crescendo that was about to hit him, except he felt oddly calm in the face of it.

He stepped in.

His flat was blissfully dim, with cold lighting that made him feel at ease. He took his sunglasses off. He felt so used to them that it hadn’t really occurred to him to take them off in a while, not even during rainy days outside. But here, in his home, he felt like he didn’t need them.

He proceeded forward slowly, taking his surroundings in, until he encountered a large mirror. And then he saw himself in it, took one look of his exposed eyes, and knew.

Oh, right. He’s a demon.

He laughed.

The realisation had come without any real shock. It felt similar to losing one’s keys and suddenly seeing them on the table where they were supposed to be after all.

“Thank Satan I’m not a businessman,” he voiced his first thought out loud. Those company numbers on his phone must have been for his demonic little plans instead.

Then, for the second time during that day, he felt like a complete idiot. He’d gone around for days thinking he was a _human?_ A _human,_ for Hell’s sake? And hadn’t put anything together until he saw his snake eyes? Not even chanced to take his glasses off in his car and peeked at a mirror by accident?

Now that he thought about it, his lack of hunger or other petty human needs should have been a big fucking indicator, but he supposed that since he’d never had to deal with those things, they had escaped his notice.

He went around his apartment, looking at his own things while pondering and putting his memory back in order. He remembered his houseplants. He remembered a lot of his decorative choices. But some things, like his statues, just felt like very odd choices. He remembered Hell and falling. Lucifer, hard not to remember that fellow. He remembered feeling annoyed with Hastur, Ligur, Beelzebub, the whole ugly lot. Remembered some of the deeds he’d done. He knew, rather than remembered, the fact that he’d been on Earth for a long while and enjoyed it. But the rest… the rest was still a hazy blur.

And…

“What does Aziraphale have to do with anything?” he wondered.

For he _knew_ he had something to do with _something._ He wouldn’t feel so familiar otherwise. And he seemed to have had his number for a while.

_Aziraphale didn’t remember their night together either._

That had to be significant, Crowley thought frantically. What if they hadn’t _just_ been blackout drunk? What if something had happened? _Aziraphale_ couldn’t be a demon, definitely not.

He thought about Beelzebub again. About his past jobs. Could this have a taste of Hell about it? That place was all about overt punishment. _What if_ , Crowley thought, pacing across his flat, what if Hell had given him a job to do and he’d screwed it up and they’d punished him by erasing his memories? That sounded like Beelzebub’s style. She was a derisive asshole who’d do such a thing partly to teach him a lesson but mostly to be a dick to him. He didn’t think his memory had been erased before for making a small mistake, but the Hell gang seemed to be fed up with him a lot of the time, so maybe it hadn’t taken much for them to think ‘fuck it, let’s just prank him royally.’ 

Aziraphale. It must have been his job to do something to Aziraphale. Corrupt him, maybe? The man seemed to be the very picture of virtue. And he’d seen religious texts in his bookshop, so he was probably pious too. So, corruption by seduction? That could be likely, since Hell tended to take pride in lust. Maybe he was supposed to have seduced Aziraphale, and he’d taken too long with it and Hell had gotten impatient. Maybe they hadn’t slept together at all! Maybe he’d tried to, but they’d just gotten drunk instead and either Aziraphale had rejected him or Crowley himself had passed out too soon. And maybe it wasn’t the alcohol that had erased Aziraphale’s memories of the night, maybe that was Hell too. To screw with them both.

Well, screw them right back. He wasn’t incompetent at his job; he just had a different approach to things. But he was going to get this right. He’d make Aziraphale melt like hot butter, and he’d get the rest of his memories back by proving himself to Hell even though he despised the lot. He knew he could do it; he’d just have to try harder. But not too hard, in case Aziraphale got too shy. And nothing shady. Aziraphale needed to want it himself. He’d take him out to dinner. Get them wine. Just a little bit, though. And then, take things from there.

He wouldn’t be condemning him to Hell if he seduced him, would he? Probably not. Aziraphale wasn’t a priest, or other important community figure. He was just a bookseller. It would just be a case of sin conquering virtue, to tip humanity’s scales to Hell’s favour. It’d be fine, right? He didn’t want anything _bad_ to happen to him. The little fool was so sweet. Which he knew he shouldn’t be thinking about.

This was just a job.

* * *

Aziraphale had been browsing his own book collection all night. It’s not like he didn’t notice the light changing outside: the deep darkness that wrapped him up ever tighter into the softly glowing atmosphere of his shop, and then later the cold dawn sneaking up on him through the windows. It was just that he didn’t really mind getting lost in his books all night. He was easily engrossed, but especially now.

He didn’t have a lot of objective, factual books on history: most were prophetic, poetic, or deeply personal accounts. Or, if they were written by real historians, they were ones with really strange takes that other historians dismissed as barmy. Those ones in particular were older copies that had probably gone out of print, the monochromatic cloth-binding faded in various spots.

His search had started with books related to the Reign of Terror, but he hadn’t found anything useful, and so he had just ended up leafing through various history related accounts. His search was fruitless, but he went on anyway, driven by some urgent instinct. His words to Crowley the previous day had shocked himself, because until he’d said it out loud, he hadn’t realised how familiar the French Revolution felt to him. It was bizarre, but he felt as if he had some sort of association with it. Almost as if he’d written an academic paper on it once, but he dismissed that thought quickly because it felt more personal, somehow.

He could have almost supposed that he was just reminiscing his own reading experience of _A Tale of Two Cities_ and had forgotten enough about it that the plot got mixed in with his own thoughts, but sometimes, out in the streets, he might smell a passing, deliciously spicy breeze coming from a restaurant and it would almost transport him to another place somewhere long ago. Or he’d look at his own books, for example Wilde’s works, or listen to a classical record, and he’d feel as if he knew them better than one normally would.

But he just couldn’t grasp how. Maybe he’d spent a lovely holiday in Paris some years ago, with historical tours and restaurants galore. It didn’t feel right, but he couldn’t really get anywhere further with his thought processes, not when he kept thinking about Crowley kissing his hand and calling him ‘cute’ whenever he got distracted for even a second. And everything else he’d done and said.

Golly, that had been a strange conversation indeed. All this time, he’d expected that Crowley pursued him because he’d enjoyed their night together, and he’d been almost disappointed to find out that Crowley didn’t remember their date either. He’d sort of hoped that he’d been pleasing enough to impress Crowley. Which was ridiculous, and he chided himself for being so base. It had just, once again, made him wonder what exactly Crowley saw in him.

And then Crowley had left so abruptly, which had been a bit odd as well. But he couldn’t bring himself to mind, not when he’d given him such a lovely parting gift.

He was humming to himself happily, thoughts scattered all over the shop, when there was a knock on the door.

He was surprised that he’d forgotten to open the shop, but by this point not so surprised to see who the dedicated customer was.

He found himself smiling as he bustled to the door and fumbled with the lock.

“Hello,” he said warmly, as soon as the door was open.

Then he blinked and took in the sight that greeted him with slight shock while trying not to ogle too much. Crowley was wearing a black button-up shirt, similar to what Aziraphale had so far seen him in, but he’d unbuttoned at least three of the top buttons and he’d rolled the sleeves up to his elbows, having slung his jacket over his shoulder. And of all ridiculous things, he was wearing black leather trousers that made Aziraphale wonder how he even managed to put them on, what with the way they clung to him.

“Hot day,” Crowley said with a grin.

“Is it,” Aziraphale said weakly, and gestured for Crowley to step inside. He thought it looked rather rainy outside, but he wasn’t going to question this.

He hadn’t even noticed that Crowley was carrying the Dickens book with him, and he took it with surprise when he pressed it to his hands.

“Oh, thank you for returning it,” Aziraphale said gratefully and looked at it. He noticed something white peeking just above the pages, tucked in the middle of the book. Was it Crowley’s bookmark, left there by accident?

He glanced at Crowley questioningly, who just kept grinning at him without acknowledging Aziraphale’s pointed look.

“Will you find me another book? Give me something that _you_ like,” Crowley said and nodded towards the shelves, urging him on.

“Yes. Of course,” Aziraphale replied quickly, and disappeared behind several shelves for a moment, as far away from Crowley as he could because he was seized by a sudden curiosity about the slip of paper between the book and he needed to see what it was.

It wasn’t a bookmark at all. It was a note.

 _I can’t stop thinking about you,_ it said, in a scrawly cursive.

Aziraphale was sure he blushed several shades of red right there and then. He shoved the note hastily into his pocket, snapped the book shut, and put it into a random space on the shelf, too flustered to check where it fell alphabetically.

“You’ll get the sonnets back too at some point,” Crowley promised from the other side of the shop.

“Thank you,” Aziraphale called out. He leaned his head against the shelf, eyes closed for a brief moment to compose himself while trying not to think about any future notes.

He breathed in deep and grabbed a worn copy of _Paradise Lost_ and made his way over with it.

Crowley laughed when he handed it over.

“What?” Aziraphale asked.

“No, nothing,” Crowley said and accepted the book with a smile.

“Are you familiar with Milton’s work?” Aziraphale asked with curiosity.

“Kinda,” Crowley replied cryptically. “But this’ll do just fine, thanks.”

Aziraphale peered at his face. He thought Crowley seemed amused based on his little smile, as if thinking of some inside joke, but he wished he could have seen his expression better. Why did he have to be so mysterious? He wondered whether it would be rude to ask the question that was bothering him, when Crowley’s gaze snapped from the book to Aziraphale’s face so suddenly that it startled him into asking it.

“Why do you always wear those sunglasses, even indoors?”

“Oh, er, I’ve got really sensitive eyes,” he replied, sounding a bit surprised. “And an eye infection,” he added hastily.

“Really?” Aziraphale said, a little disappointed. He had expected a superficially aesthetic reason for it, and that by questioning it Crowley would have become aware of it and removed the glasses with embarrassment. He felt guilty for assuming such a thing. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

“It’s fine,” Crowley said dismissively. Then he gestured to the book in his hand. “I’ll return this as well when I’m done with it, then? And do you want the Hardy book back, too?”

“Oh yes, if you could, that’d be lovely. That is, if you don’t want to keep them,” Aziraphale beamed. Then he remembered something. “Oh! But I should refund you.”

“No need. I thought we agreed we could have dinner some time. Call it even. We could go tomorrow, maybe?” Crowley stepped closer to Aziraphale as he said this and lowered his voice. “Forgive me for being so greedy, but I want to spend more time with you… if that’s okay.”

Aziraphale blinked. He noticed that he had to focus to keep his knees from buckling, which was rather pathetic and functioned as a little wake-up call for him. He needed to get a grip and not be so easily charmed by Crowley, always rendered so flustered that he barely knew how to respond. He straightened his back and tugged on his waistcoat in a dignified manner.

“Yes. I’d like that very much,” he said firmly.

“Alright. I’ll give you a call tomorrow night,” Crowley said with a grin, and sauntered away.

Aziraphale thought his dignity might not have a very long life after all as his eyes inadvertently strayed to Crowley’s swingingly retreating, leather-clad behind.

It took Aziraphale a moment to register what Crowley had said as he left, and he was long gone by the time he questioned it. He didn’t remember giving Crowley his phone number. But maybe he had and then he’d just forgotten it. It made him wonder whether he had his number, too, and he went over to his address book to check. He flipped through the book and found Crowley’s number. Then he frowned and looked at another contact that he’d written down there.

Who was Sergeant Shadwell, and why did it sound familiar? Or did it? The book was slightly bent where his name was, as if the spread of the pages had been opened many times. Maybe he knew that person. He hesitated, thinking it might be smart to call them in case they were a friend of his and could help with his memory problem, but at the same time he dreaded the idea. Phone calls were dismal.

He grabbed his telephone and dialled anyway. He hadn’t made any progress with his memories, and it annoyed him.

A man answered the phone after a long moment.

“Who is this,” the voice asked gruffly.

“It’s Aziraphale,” Aziraphale answered hesitantly.

“It’s the southern pansy,” the man shouted to someone else on his end. He sounded irritated.

“Excuse me?” Aziraphale asked.

“Let me talk to him,” someone said on the other end.

“No,” the man said, but there was a sound of a phone exchanging hands anyway.

“Hello dear!” It was a friendly, female voice that sounded alarmingly familiar. “How have you been? Is it odd that I miss you, a bit? It was terribly nice working with you.”

“Oh, uh, yes, it was,” Aziraphale replied hesitantly.

The woman went on, chattering pleasantly.

“I hope I can catch up with you again some time, but hopefully under different circumstances than before. I think we’ve had quite enough of the angelic business for now. Oh, but I hope you didn’t get into any trouble with Heaven! Actually, I have to go now, poor mister Shadwell doesn’t look so happy. Sorry about that.”

Then the man’s voice was loud in Aziraphale’s ear.

“Stop. Calling. This. Number,” he said with a huff and ended the call.

Aziraphale put the receiver down quietly. Angelic business. Heaven. Well, that explained why the concept of humans and mortality had been feeling so distant to him _. He wasn’t one of them_. He was an angel, of course he was. He remembered. Thank God.

He glanced at his shop again. The books. No wonder some of them felt so old and familiar: he’d been around when they were _written._ He must have been there when the French Revolution happened, too. Except- something crucial about that was still missing. His memories weren’t pouring back like he’d expected. They were trickling down agonisingly slowly, with hazy spots in places he didn’t expect.

“Oh no,” he said to himself. He felt worried that just as he was starting to figure things out, the memories would recede into the distance again. He needed to seize this moment and work it out based on what he’d just heard on the phone.

He knew the woman, that much was sure. And they’d worked together before, although he couldn’t remember on what occasion. But she must be an angel, too, because how else would she know about Heaven? He knew now that his job was to stay on Earth and watch over the humans, assuring that Hell wouldn’t stray them to evil paths. Providing little miracles and doing good deeds. Yes. So, he must have been colleagues with the woman until they were assigned different jobs.

He felt quite satisfied with that deduction. But Crowley didn’t fit into the equation. _He_ probably wasn’t an angel. No, he’d know. He was such a… such a suave scoundrel. Not in a bad way necessarily, but… enough of the sort that made him question why he, _an angel_ , was spending time with him.

Oh, goodness. What if he had been tasked with bettering Crowley’s ways? What if Crowley was a particularly difficult case, in severe danger of being tempted by vices and tiptoeing around the edge of Hell? He needed to guide that poor mortal onto a better path. And maybe, in trying to get to know his subject, he had agreed to drink with him and then had been punished by Heaven for it. Yes, maybe that was what the woman on the phone referred to as well. That’s why his memories had been taken away.

That meant they _hadn’t_ slept together at all! Because surely, he wouldn’t have gotten involved with his subjects? No, it was all a silly misunderstanding. But he knew what he was doing now. It all made sense now. Maybe. He frowned to himself. Heaven must have been angry with him for messing it up, because he still felt a bit lost. But at least now he knew what to do next.

He would go to that dinner, and he would banish all thoughts of Crowley’s lovely behind and try not to let the big flirt get to him. Things would have to be strictly friendly. The thought made him feel an absurd little twinge of sadness.

Well, maybe he shouldn’t be _that_ strict in case Crowley started to suspect something. Oh yes, he’d have to be crafty about this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> when i started writing this fic, i worried that it would be a huge plothole that Crowley wouldn't just look at himself in the mirror for a week without his sunglasses, but i felt reassured when I thought about how dumb crowley and aziraphale are sometimes... hope you enjoyed the chapter! only two more to go. :)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> enjoy crowley and aziraphale's awkward date!

Crowley had looked up a highly rated – and quite expensive – restaurant for them, one of those tower ones that granted great views. It seemed like a very modern type, and Crowley hoped he hadn’t accidentally picked something too annoyingly ‘chic’; one of those trendy places that teemed with people who pretended they had personalities even though they were just rich. But this one overlooked the Thames, with a good view of the Tower Bridge, and Crowley wanted to take Aziraphale somewhere memorable to wow him. He decided to take him out just as the sun was about to set, so that if the food was terrible, they’d at least see the city transform before their eyes.

He’d put on a sleek black suit this time. It had been fun to see Aziraphale ogling at him yesterday while pretending he wasn’t, but he wanted to be appropriate for this. Of course, it was still flatteringly tailored.

He also took care to drive them there slowly, even though every instinct in him wanted to race through the streets. He remembered how hard Aziraphale had clutched the seat the last time he’d given him a ride, and although it had been hilarious, he wanted to start the evening on a good foot to put him at ease. He would act like a gentleman and then flirt unabashedly throughout the dinner. And if things went well, afterwards he was planning on getting a good snog out of Aziraphale in the car. He didn’t want to expect anything more than that for now.

But even though he’d put in all this effort, the date wasn’t going exactly as expected. Yes, Aziraphale smiled sweetly at his attentions and eyed him when he thought Crowley didn’t notice, but whenever he tried to say anything even remotely suggestive, Aziraphale would change the topic ever so subtly. And, weirder, Aziraphale kept bringing up how ‘nice’ Crowley was being for taking him out to dinner like this, and saying things like ‘don’t you think good conversations like this between people make us all understand one another better?’ when he least expected it.

The food _was_ good and Aziraphale was kind of adorably excited about it, but even so, Crowley had to excuse himself before they ordered dessert to have a little pep talk with himself in the bathroom.

“I’ve got this,” he told himself in the mirror. “I just need to refocus. Maybe try holding his hand. That’ll be fine, won’t it? Oh, Hell will think I’m pathetic. But is it my fault if he’s so hard to seduce?”

A man emerged from one of the stalls and gave him an odd look.

“What? You never talk to yourself? Get out,” Crowley snapped at him. The man was about to leave obediently. “Actually, wash your hands first. Disgusting.”

Crowley waited until the man had washed his hands meekly and, once alone again, resumed his talk with himself.

“Just ignore it when he calls you nice,” he said, while fixing his hair. “He couldn’t be more wrong, but if it makes him happy to say it, fine. And I’ll order dessert too, even if I don’t care for it that much. Just so I can lick a spoon suggestively.”

He nodded to himself in the mirror.

Aziraphale was inspecting the wine menu with great focus when he returned to the table. He looked up with a guilty-looking smile as Crowley sat down.

“Should we order another bottle?” he asked sheepishly. “It’s just… they have an _excellent_ selection here.”

Crowley smirked at him. “Let’s. Choose whatever you want. You know what? It’s my treat.”

“Oh, how kind,” Aziraphale said sweetly.

Crowley pursed his mouth as if he’d just sucked on a lemon for a moment but let the compliment slide. In fact, maybe he ought to fish for some more compliments. It might give him an opening to hold Aziraphale’s hand.

“How’s tonight been? D’you like the place?” he asked.

“Yes. Thank you, dear boy,” Aziraphale said fondly, and although the ‘dear boy’ sounded rather patronising to Crowley, he still took his chance.

He reached across the table slowly, brushing Aziraphale’s fingers with his before going to grab the hand lightly.

“Goodness, the tiramisu sounds good, doesn’t it?” Aziraphale said suddenly and rather loudly, reaching for all the menus in front of him with that very hand and shuffling them around clumsily.

Crowley felt a lurch in his stomach at the rejection. Satan, this wasn’t going well. He felt mortified at how badly he was doing at his job, but mixed within that mortification was a strangely personal, wounded emotion. He didn’t understand Aziraphale. Why was he being so contradictory?

“Yeah. Sounds good,” Crowley replied flatly. He tried to keep any obvious disappointment from his voice but took a moment to sulk a little anyway as he stared out of the window. The sun was setting in a violently vibrant red sky.

Aziraphale placed their order, and while they waited Crowley took the time to get over himself. It was just a minor setback. A shitty one, but he’d get over this. And if he was an optimist about this – which wasn’t easy, because he wasn’t one – Aziraphale’s strange brush-offs made an unpredictable game out of this. A challenge.

“What do you think about the environment?” Aziraphale asked, apropos of nothing.

“It’s alright?” Crowley said with a questioning tone but played along anyway. “I quite like animals, actually.”

“Oh yes, me too,” Aziraphale smiled. “It’s a shame what they’re doing to the environment, isn’t it?”

“Who, animals?”

“No, hu- er. Corporations,” Aziraphale said haltingly. Then he looked down, embarrassed. “Oh, I’m sorry. Didn’t you work for corporations?”

“No, yeah, but like I said, it’s not very me. I do… agree with you?” Crowley said, a little unsure of himself. Technically, as a demon, he was supposed to approve of evil corporations. But he did like the planet he was on, too. And he didn’t want Aziraphale to think he was some money hungry CEO with no personality.

“Jolly good,” Aziraphale said, smiling even more delightedly. “We must all be aware of our contributions and responsibilities.”

“Yeah…,” Crowley said dubiously and nodded. Aziraphale was starting to sound like a kindergarten teacher, but he didn’t know what else to say. He didn’t want to dispute him, not when he was so pleased. There was a glint in his eyes when he smiled widely like that. Crowley was quite fascinated with it.

The wine and the dessert arrived.

Aziraphale was so appreciative of his tiramisu that Crowley forgot what he was supposed to be doing – suggestively licking the damn dessert spoon! – and ended up staring at Aziraphale instead. He appeared to be savouring each spoonful so ardently, with little moans and flutters of his eyelids, that Crowley wondered whether he was doing it on purpose. But why would he act like that suddenly? To mess with Crowley? That didn’t make sense, he didn’t seem the type to hurt others on purpose. He supposed the prim little bastard was simply oblivious of his own appeal and genuinely liked dessert a lot.

Crowley felt a bead of sweat drop down from his neck to his shirt collar, and almost mechanically licked tiramisu off his own spoon in an attempt to gain the upper hand. But Aziraphale, being too preoccupied with his treat, didn’t even notice.

Crowley snorted with laughter despite himself.

“What?” Aziraphale asked, his eyes round and oblivious as he lifted his gaze to Crowley.

“You’re adorable,” Crowley said.

Aziraphale flushed scarlet and grabbed his wine glass.

It started pouring down with rain just as they left the restaurant, so they ran to the Bentley quickly and shut themselves in. Crowley had expected something calmer, maybe a nice walk along the Thames to prolong their date before he’d have politely opened the passenger side’s door for Aziraphale. But the evening kept surprising Crowley, and here he was, sitting in the car with him so suddenly that he hadn’t had time to plan what he’d do.

The air inside the car felt humid due to the rain and their unexpected run. Crowley shrugged himself out of his jacket, feeling uncomfortably clammy. He glanced at Aziraphale, who looked oddly dry. He raised his eyebrows at him pointedly.

“Waterproof jacket,” Aziraphale said, making Crowley frown dubiously, but then Aziraphale gave a sheepish giggle that stole his attention.

Aziraphale was in an endearing mood after their shared bottle of wine. He wasn’t drunk, as far as Crowley could tell, but teetering on the edge of tipsy. He’d laughed and smiled at Crowley’s remarks noticeably more during their dessert than he had been that night so far and seemed generally a bit less uptight. Crowley couldn’t fathom why he’d seemed so uptight and rebuffing in the first place, considering that he’d agreed to the date willingly, but Crowley supposed he may have just been nervous. In any case, he was grateful that he seemed to have loosened up a little.

“Should I drop you off home?” Crowley asked, hoping Aziraphale would say no. “Bit of a slippery weather to be driving in, though.”

“Oh, no, you can’t possibly,” Aziraphale gasped. “We’ve had wine!”

“Oh, right,” Crowley said with joyful realisation. He hadn’t even considered it. “Well, I’m not _drunk_. But I guess we could… sit here for a moment and… wait for the downpour and wine to pass a little.”

Aziraphale beamed at him warmly. “Thank you.” Then he seemed to remember something, and added, rather sanctimoniously, “It’s the right thing to do.”

“Yeah,” Crowley agreed, blinking stupidly as he couldn’t help but get mesmerised by Aziraphale’s smile again. He was grateful for his sunglasses.

Aziraphale looked around the car for a while.

“Do you have any music?” he asked pleasantly.

“Sure. Pick something,” Crowley said, with slight trepidation in his voice. Aziraphale started rummaging through the CDs in his glovebox. “Although… it might turn out to be…,” he started to warn, as Aziraphale found a compilation of Beethoven and put it in the player.

“ _Aaaaaaare you gonna take me home tonight?”_

“Queen. It might turn out to be Queen,” Crowley said apologetically, and reached for the eject button.

Aziraphale reached out to stop him, and his hand brushed Crowley’s.

“Oh, I don’t mind that much,” Aziraphale said.

“ _Ah, down beside that red firelight_ ”

Crowley almost let the track play, distracted by the opportunity presented by their contact and the desperate need to seize it, but then-

“ _Aaaaare you gonna let it all ha_ -“

“No, we’re definitely changing it,” Crowley said with a laugh as he pressed the eject button. He didn’t think he’d be able to deal with Aziraphale’s reactions and questions to the lyrics. It’d get awkward. Especially if something like Bohemian Rhapsody came on. Difficult to try to seduce anyone when you were being reminded of Beelzebub.

“Try the _Greatest Hits_ album,” Crowley suggested, nodding to the Queen album in the glovebox.

“But?” Aziraphale questioned, lifting the CD out.

Crowley just grabbed it and put it in.

Vivaldi’s ‘Autumn’ concerto started flowing from the stereos.

“Close enough,” Crowley shrugged.

Aziraphale shot him a confused look.

“The CDs are all mixed up,” Crowley said.

“Oh,” Aziraphale laughed. He savoured the music for a while, pleased. “Excellent man, he was, Vivaldi. He taught music to orphans, you know.”

“Wow,” Crowley said, accidentally a little bit sarcastically. He tried to cover it up. “He _was_ great live, in concert.” Then he realised mortals wouldn’t have been able to see a concert in the 18th century. “I mean, I saw a rendition of him in concert. Here in London. A few years back. Would have been great to see him in the flesh.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale agreed. “I quite like the occasional classical concert.”

“We could go some time,” Crowley suggested at once.

“That would be nice,” Aziraphale said with a smile. “Ooh, you know how they sometimes do concerts in old churches and cathedrals? That could be something.”

“Yeah, maybe,” Crowley said uncomfortably. Stepping inside a church was the last thing he wanted, but he didn’t want to disappoint Aziraphale when he seemed to be in such a good mood.

“The acoustics must be marvellous,” Aziraphale said with an enchanted look in his eyes.

“I bet,” Crowley said. He tried to think of something positive to say about churches. “The architecture’s alright.”

“Oh, isn’t it,” Aziraphale agreed happily.

A calm silence settled between them. For a moment, they just listened to the music and the sound of raindrops falling on the roof and windows of the car. It was dark outside by now, but the streetlights created a calm glow. Barely anyone was outside in the downpour, so nobody passed them by. Crowley felt as if they were in their own little bubble.

He wondered what humans usually talked about. He wanted to get closer to Aziraphale, but he didn’t know how exactly to achieve it. If he could, he’d ask him something personal. But that would make a pretty one-sided conversation, as he wouldn’t really be able to reveal much about himself that wasn’t all lies. As a demon, he probably _should_ lie to achieve his goal, but, stubbornly, he wanted to succeed on his own terms as well as he could.

“It’s nice to go out with someone who appreciates culture,” Aziraphale said suddenly.

Crowley snapped to look at him with a smug little smile. Teasing debate. That was something he could do.

“’Culture’?” He asked. “Do you define culture to be something that happened at least several decades or centuries ago? Classical literature, music and old architecture?”

“Not necessarily,” Aziraphale said defensively, although he looked a bit sheepish. “It’s just a personal preference. What I mean is, it’s nice to be interested in art. It provides some meaning to the world, does it not?”

“As opposed to?” Crowley grinned.

“What do you mean?” Aziraphale asked.

“Do you think the rest is meaningless?” Crowley prompted. “Or improper?”

“No, there’s lots of good things,” Aziraphale said, a bit confused now. “Kindness… Piety-“

“Wine?” Crowley interrupted.

“Er… Yes,” Aziraphale admitted, blushing a little. He appeared to have lost his train of thought but tried to keep listing things. “Affection?” he suggested.

“Oh, indeed?” Crowley said slyly. He was going to seize this easy chance. He lifted his hand and brushed his thumb along Aziraphale’s right cheek.

Aziraphale blinked at him slowly.

“What I mean to say is…. it’s good to…. have interests…,” Aziraphale said awkwardly, as Crowley caressed his face. “You’re a very interesting person, Crowley.”

“Why, thank you,” Crowley grinned.

Aziraphale seemed at a loss for words. He smiled nervously under Crowley’s touch and, clearly trying to change the subject, asked:

“What did you think of Milton?”

Crowley gave a little laugh. He knew _Paradise Lost_ from the very first book to the last. Almost all demons did: they found Milton’s attempted descriptions of Heaven and Hell and the Fall hilarious. It wasn’t that the poem was particularly bad, but it was funny reading about something that one had experienced for himself. It was _especially_ funny when the Romantics started feeling sympathy for Satan in the poem.

But of course, he couldn’t tell Aziraphale that. Instead, feeling wily, he quoted a passage from it which fitted his intentions.

Whatever hypocrites austerely talk

Of purity and place and innocence,

Defaming as impure what God declares

Pure, and commands to some, leaves free to all.

Aziraphale laughed, although he looked flustered.

“Crowley, I believe Milton is talking about _it_ in the context of heterosexual marriage there,” he pointed out.

“Oh, well, beauty is in the eye of the beholder, isn’t it?” Crowley said dismissively.

“I think you’re referring to ‘Death of the Author’, or would that not be more accurate?” Aziraphale offered.

“Whatever,” Crowley said, and put his other hand on the other side of Aziraphale’s face. He stared at him for a second, waiting to see if Aziraphale would react. Aziraphale just stared back at him, so Crowley leaned over and kissed his cheek.

Since the model of the car was quite slim, it meant that the seats were very close together and Crowley barely needed to budge toward Aziraphale from his seat until he was practically in Aziraphale’s lap. Crowley smothered his cheek in slow kisses, inching towards his neck.

Aziraphale put his hand hesitantly on Crowley’s shoulder and nudged him gently.

“That’s uh- your- your tattoo is quite intriguing,” Aziraphale stammered.

“Yeah? I have an affinity with snakes,” Crowley murmured, and continued trailing kisses on Aziraphale’s jaw, still caressing the other side of his face with his hand.

Aziraphale’s hand was now gripping Crowley’s shoulder, as if for support. Crowley heard his breath hitch.

“Oh, Crowley-,“ he started, but his words ended in another intake of breath.

Crowley was nearing Aziraphale’s mouth, and Aziraphale turned his face more towards Crowley. He was blushing more than ever.

_Finally,_ Crowley thought with triumph, lost enough in his heady excitement that he almost forgot he was doing this for a job. _He’s going to kiss me._

“Crowley, do you- do you have a moment to talk about our Lord in Heaven?” Aziraphale blurted out.

Crowley bolted away from his face as quickly as he could and felt his body shudder from head to toe in pure disgust.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> final chapter, here you go! :)

The next day, Aziraphale hid in his closed bookshop in utter mortification.

He buried his burning face in his hands for what felt like the hundredth time, thinking about the disastrous end to their date. He was quite sure he’d ruined everything. He hadn’t meant to ask about Crowley’s faith so blatantly, but it had just slipped from his mouth, in a desperate attempt to keep his wits about him. All evening, he’d tried so hard to subtly guide Crowley towards fruitful conversation topics, to plant a sense of virtue into his mind while trying not to be too obvious.

But Crowley had been so hard to resist! He’d been so lovely, and Aziraphale had had such a nice time that sometimes he’d forgotten to keep up appearances of being human. He’d accidentally miracled his coat to stay dry in the rain, and sometimes he had to really focus in order not to say anything that would give his angelic identity away. He was so worried that Crowley would find out about it that it made it difficult to keep his guard up against Crowley’s flirtatious attempts.

And then, in the car, he almost gave in to the sensation of his kisses, he really _wanted to_ give in _,_ but then his sense of obligation to his task hit him and he couldn’t think of anything else to say. _Why_ had he said something that not only jeopardised his secret so obviously, but that was also an extremely inappropriate thing to say in the moment?

Now Crowley probably never wanted to see him again.

He hadn’t even answered his question. He’d only said he ought to drive Aziraphale home, and the drive back had been deadly silent and tangibly awkward, with no mention of a repeat date.

Aziraphale felt tempted to just resign to his fate. So what if he never regained the rest of his memories and if he disappointed Heaven? He supposed he could manage. He had his bookshop.

The thought made him feel dejected. No, he couldn’t. Something important was missing. And he couldn’t bear it if things with Crowley ended so badly. Even if he wasn’t supposed to get _involved_ with him, he still wanted to be on good terms with him, to have his company. He’d just need to be careful about keeping his angelic secret, to have his guard up at all times.

He decided it would be best if he waited for a day or two to see if Crowley turned up at the shop again, but if he didn’t, Aziraphale would call him to apologise without dwelling too much on the issue and ask to meet him. Somewhere neutral, such as the park. And he’d certainly be more subtle this time and avoid making such blunders again.

* * *

Crowley considered setting his alarm clock forward a few months or possibly decades. His failure at seducing Aziraphale hit him harder than it should have. He shouldn’t care about it, Aziraphale was just some silly stuck-up human that he’d been assigned to work on. But he felt a hollowness in his chest, an instinct to hide and pretend none of this had ever happened. But he ended up setting the alarm clock forward only for a week, feeling restless enough to know that he couldn’t really sleep for that long.

And before long into the week, Aziraphale’s call woke him up from his fitful slumber. He listened to him stammering something about how lovely the _dinner_ had been, and how he’d been a little nervous. Not a whole lot else.

Crowley sighed. He was annoyed with both Aziraphale and himself, but he already knew he’d agree to see him again. He didn’t know if he’d ever succeed at his job, but he didn’t know what else to do. Maybe this was just a long game, and he’d need to be more patient. Or maybe he’d lost the whole game. But he needed to see him one last time until he admitted defeat, to put things to rest.

He had to admit that he was also curious. How would Aziraphale act after _that_? Would Aziraphale try to push the whole evening under a rug when he saw him?

They agreed to meet in the park, which would be nice and distracting. Crowley could stare at the ducks if things got weird again.

Aziraphale was already waiting for him there when he arrived, wringing his hands self-consciously and darting his eyes to Crowley’s and back to his own hands, apparently too embarrassed to hold eye contact with Crowley for too long as he made his way over to him.

“Hi,” Crowley said as he got to him. Normally, he would have sauntered close to him, but this time he kept a slightly tenser distance to him.

Aziraphale gave him a pained look, eyes full of words unsaid. He looked like he was pleading Crowley for something. Not to bring yesterday up?

Crowley sighed. Aziraphale’s eyebrows were slightly raised, eyes ever so slightly round. He looked so… pitiful in his annoyingly endearing way of his. Crowley could feel his defenses dropping, his disappointment and bitter feelings dissipating to the background as he looked at him.

_Dammit_ , he wouldn’t be able to give up. He just couldn’t. Fuck.

“Hello, Crowley,” Aziraphale said with a meek smile.

Yeah, no, he’d stick with this job until he either succeeded or lost or Hell decided to ground him into powder or whatever. But that didn’t mean he wouldn’t try. He just needed to switch tactics: be gentle and polite as well as he could, warm but slightly distant so that any physical moves to be made would be left entirely to Aziraphale.

“What did you have in mind today?” Crowley asked, because he sure as Hell didn’t know what they were going to do.

“Thought we could… get some ice cream and walk about,” Aziraphale said, clearly not entirely sure either.

“Right,” Crowley nodded, and they started walking.

Aziraphale made some half-hearted remark about the weather, which almost made Crowley want to laugh, but he tried to keep the conversation going until they mercifully reached the little ice cream stand. As they stood in the queue, Crowley noticed how distracted Aziraphale looked.

However, just as they were about to get served by the vendor, Aziraphale shook himself slightly and dug out some crumpled notes from his pocket.

“My treat,” he said.

“Oh, you’re an angel,” Crowley said, just to be ‘nice’.

But Aziraphale flinched suddenly and turned to him, the notes falling from his slack hand in surprise.

“What? You _know_? How did you know?” he said in an alarmed tone.

“What are you on about? I was just- thanking you for- wait, what?” Crowley replied, confused.

“No, nothing. Forget about it. Ah, it was a- a joke,” Aziraphale said, looking pale and picking up the fallen notes from the ground hastily.

He was about to approach the vendor, but Crowley grabbed the lapel of his coat and dragged him away from the stand, feeling a cold shiver down his own spine when he started to realise what had just happened.

No way. _No fucking way._

Aziraphale made a sound of protest, but Crowley kept his grip tight on his coat and dragged him with him towards his car while the other park visitors stared.

“What are you _doing_?!” Aziraphale demanded, and tried to root his feet into the ground, but Crowley was so determined that he managed to drag him into the Bentley and shove him in.

He clambered in after him, closed the doors, and took his sunglasses off.

“ _Demon_!” Aziraphale gasped at once. “Why didn’t I think-?!”

“Angel?” Crowley replied, his eyebrows raised at Aziraphale in a questioning way.

They stared at each other for a few seconds.

“Obviously there’s been some sort of misunderstanding,” Crowley pointed out flatly.

“What did you do?” Aziraphale asked accusingly.

“Bit rude to assume it was my doing,” Crowley bit back.

“Well, you’re a demon,” Aziraphale said, staring at him in disbelief.

Crowley rolled his eyes.

Of course. _Of course_ Aziraphale was an angel, everything about him screamed angel.

“I can’t believe I was stupid enough to think you were human,” Crowley seethed.

“Likewise,” Aziraphale said, regarding him warily. He looked as if he was ready to bolt.

“Don’t you dare leave now,” Crowley warned. He needed answers. This thing was weirder than he’d expected, and yet it was somehow starting to make more sense.

“I need to… I need to contact my superiors…,” Aziraphale said, although he looked entirely unsure.

“You lost your memories, too, didn’t you? Not just of that one night?” Crowley asked.

“Yes,” Aziraphale admitted.

They fell silent again, frowning at each other hesitantly.

“We’re sure we didn’t…?” Aziraphale began, with a worried shiver. “Copulate?”

“No, you idiot,” Crowley said harshly. He was trying to think. “That amount of alcohol though…,” he wondered out loud, thinking back to when he woke up in Aziraphale’s shop with all those bottles littered on the floor. “Why would we have drunk it together? Surely nobody would _force_ an angel and a demon to get shitfaced together?”

“I would never drink with a demon,” Aziraphale said instinctively, all holier-than-thou.

“I think you did, though,” Crowley said. “Something about this is fishy. I don’t think we were acting under our superiors’ orders.”

Aziraphale looked defeated. He appeared to admit to himself that Crowley was probably right.

“How did you remember? That you were a demon?” Aziraphale asked.

“Saw my eyes,” Crowley gestured to his face. “Pretty obvious after that. You?”

“I had my suspicions… but… it didn’t really fall into place until I called someone, and something they said reminded me.”

“Who?” Crowley asked.

“Oh, eh… I had someone called ‘Shadwell’ in my phonebook, but a lady answered, I think an angel-?”

“I have Shadwell’s number too,” Crowley said with surprise. He dug out his phone and showed Aziraphale. “Grumpy guy. Sounded familiar, but he didn’t want to talk.”

“Yes!” Aziraphale exclaimed. “Why would we both know him?”

“Dunno,” Crowley shrugged. “We should call him.”

He pressed the call button before Aziraphale could give his input, but he looked expectantly at Crowley’s phone as well. He seemed to agree that there was not much else to do to solve their mystery.

They waited, wordlessly, as Crowley put the phone on speaker.

Someone finally answered.

“What,” Sergeant Shadwell barked, clearly irritated and uninterested. “Didn’t I tell you to stop calling?”

“We need your help with something-“ Aziraphale started, which instantly made Shadwell sound even more irritated. Furious, actually.

“ _No!_ I’ve told you! No more apocalypses, no more weird bairns on bicycles with flaming swords, no more antichrist stuff,” he started ranting, his accent and dialect getting stronger the more he raved, “naw mair third-nippled tarts prancing aboot with losers blowing up shite. This is all yer fault, isn’t it? Whit have ye done noo? Didn’t I tell ye I’m retired? I’m too auld fur this. Pansies and devils possessing puir helpless hens! We’ll have none of it!”

He was still shouting, but Crowley and Aziraphale were staring at each other without listening anymore.

“The apocalypse,” Aziraphale said.

“The antichrist. Adam,” Crowley replied.

And just like that, Crowley remembered _everything._ As soon as he had remembered details from Shadwell’s speech and had put them together, the rest of his memories came rushing back in a blink of an eye - including their drunken night, and his over-confident promise of removing their hangover. And judging by the look in Aziraphale’s eyes, he remembered too. His expression was a mixture of emotions.

Crowley hung up the phone, interrupting Shadwell’s rant, and looked away from Aziraphale to stare out of the window. He couldn’t register anything that he was seeing. Instead, his life was flashing before his eyes in a horrifying montage, the past week or so taunting him like some kind of surreal nightmare. He felt appalled by his stupidity and morbidly embarrassed at his behaviour towards Aziraphale. He felt guilty, too; Aziraphale deserved better than some idiot trying to seduce him as efficiently as possible. Aziraphale didn’t even know that he lo-

He stopped that train of thought before it consumed him and made him feel even more horrified at himself.

But he couldn’t stop thinking about how idiotic he’d been. _Holy shit_ did he turn into a complete slut when he wasn’t being repressed by 6000 years of feelings and fear of rejection.

“Let’s get you home,” he said stiffly, put his sunglasses back on, and started driving them towards the bookshop unsteadily.

* * *

Aziraphale almost felt like breaking into giggles at the absurdity of it all, but didn’t because Crowley looked so utterly mortified and pale as he gripped the steering wheel with all his might.

Oh, he was embarrassed too, at his own nonsensical conclusions and general buffoonery towards Crowley, but he was also surprised by himself. Although he’d been flustered when Crowley had flirted with him, he’d definitely let him on as well, that was for sure! He certainly wouldn’t have behaved like that if he’d had his memories intact.

Well.

He remembered how he’d showed off in 1789 just in hopes that Crowley would turn up to save him and give him attention.

But still… He supposed love made all the difference. It made everything wonderful, but also incredibly scary. With that lack of fear things had been almost… simpler. Maybe this wasn’t such a bad accident to happen. Maybe they needed some sort of push for things to progress between them.

And this _was_ quite hilarious. Maybe Crowley would think so, too, once he’d gotten over it. He hoped Crowley didn’t blame himself too much.

He glanced at poor Crowley again, who hadn’t said another word. He thought of the kisses he’d bestowed upon him and shivered a little. His face felt warm.

Soon, they’d arrived at the shop. Too soon, because as Aziraphale got out of the car, he realised that Crowley would absolutely speed off home as fast as he could, and he might not hear from him in ages.

“My books. Can I have the rest of them back, too?” he enquired.

“Yeah,” Crowley said, his voice empty.

“Can you bring them in? Tomorrow, or, the day after that, or…?” Aziraphale asked. Knowing Crowley, he would probably just have dropped them off at his door and fled the scene.

“I guess.”

Aziraphale smiled kindly, trying to show Crowley that he wasn’t upset with him at all.

“You know, if this is what it takes for you to start reading classics then I wholeheartedly recommend it!” he joked to alleviate the tension.

Crowley gave him a pained look. “Don’t.”

Aziraphale felt his stomach lurch with the beginnings of panic. He felt overwhelmed with love, and Crowley was leaning over in his seat to shut the passenger side’s door so he could leave while he stood helplessly on the busy street.

“Wait!” Aziraphale said breathlessly. “You forgot… something.”

His heart was thudding in his chest – needlessly, yes, but nevertheless with increased beats that made him feel lightheaded.

Crowley gave him a questioning frown.

Aziraphale pointed at his own cheek with his finger, turning it slightly towards Crowley.

“Are you going to make fun of me forever?” Crowley asked. His voice betrayed no emotion, except maybe sarcasm, but Aziraphale knew that Crowley used sarcasm to hide things.

“No,” Aziraphale said, appalled. He strode over to the other side of the car and opened the driver’s side’s door.

Crowley was staring at him in a nonplussed way. It was now or never, and although Aziraphale was determined, he felt frozen in place, shaking uselessly. For a moment he considered letting Crowley drive off. But he couldn’t. He needed to do this.

He bent down to Crowley’s level in the car in order to reach him, grabbed the sides of his face with both hands, and planted a kiss on his cheek.

He retreated a little. Crowley was gaping at him.

“See you tomorrow. Or whenever you want,” Aziraphale said sincerely, his voice still breathless. “But please do come visit, Crowley.”

He bent down to kiss him on the same cheek again.

“I- uhn-,” Crowley said. “Y-yeah. I’ll. See you later. Yep. See you. Later.”

Aziraphale gave him a sunny smile. He hoped he hadn’t broken Crowley.

“Bye,” Aziraphale said warmly, and closed the car door gently. He gave Crowley a little wave and walked to his shop without looking back.

But once he was inside, he turned to look out of the window and saw Crowley still sitting in the car, motionless, until eventually he seemed to shake himself into action to drive away.

Aziraphale finally let the giggle out. His heart felt like bursting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope you liked it! comments are super welcome, I've read this so many times that sometimes I can't tell what to think of it, so it's nice to hear what people think. :)


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